


For Reasons Wretched and Divine

by thatonefandomwriter



Category: markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demons, Gen, Gods, Gore in the second chapter, Graphic Self Harm, Magic, Major character death - Freeform, Origin Story, as in a rapist is murdered, bim is creeped out, i wrote this mostly in one sitting so excuse any mistakes, lots of blood mentions, my headcannons on how the author became the host, rape is mentioned briefly, shit gets real fast, suicide is also mentioned, the author is a dick, the host and scary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 21:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18396800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonefandomwriter/pseuds/thatonefandomwriter
Summary: "Bim Trimmer asked how the Author lost his eyes. Not how the Host got his body.”The air became tense between them, and Bim shifted again. “So, how did it happen?”The Host popped his neck, and took a deep breath. “The Host is glad that Bim Trimmer asked.”





	1. Chapter 1

The Host sat up in his bed, idly picking at the bandages with his growing irritation. It was the anniversary of his birth and he couldn't stand it. With his birth came, of course, the death of the not missed Author. He pulled out his own eyes and gave up his body for the taking. It was not the Host's fault a mere human played with forces too strong, nor the consequences that followed. He did wish the Author kept his eyes, instead of sacrificing them. He threw the blanket off his body, his usual solemn mumbling the only sound in the quiet bedroom. He got dressed, using his Sight to make sure that he was putting on the correct clothes. “The Host then-” He froze, hearing the metal baseball fall to the floor in the closet. “The Host then reminds the Author that this was his doing and banishes his soul from his mind.” He hissed out the narration, the baseball bat slowly lifting back to the corner of his closet where it lay dormant. 

He walked down the steps with practiced skill. He entered the kitchen and was attacked by an overly enthusiastic Bim who hugged him and smacked a kiss on his cheek. 

“Happy birthday, big guy! Any plans?” 

“The Host does not. And requests that Bim Trimmer does not sneak up on him on this day.” The blind man muttered, finding his way to his chair at the kitchen table and sitting down. He realized the tired ache in his bones, and didn't want to get up to fix that. His aura appeared to compensate, a light golden shimmer around him. It then worked like hands, grabbing his mug from the cabinet and filling it with coffee from the pot. Then, his aura placed the mug in front of him before sizzling back to the ground around him and seeping back into his shadow. 

“Hey- uh, big guy. Your eyes are bleeding like crazy.” Bim was horrified at the sight, his hand reaching up to cover his mouth. He hadn't seen the aura, only the mug appear and the blood start trailing down the other's face at a fast rate. 

The Host only smiled at the comment, grabbing a napkin from the table and dabbing the blood off his cheeks before it rolled down his chin. “The Host would like Bim Trimmer to know that there is no need for alarm. And is simply because of his exertion. He should not use his aura without a towel nearby.” He heard the other man hesitantly agree and pour himself a cup of orange juice. He easily slipped back into his quiet narration. He hadn't paid mind when the TV show host sat across the table from him, not in his usual spot. 

Bim leaned in across the table, cup in hand. “Hey, Host. Super sorry for asking but how'd you lose your eyes? Sorry if this is uncool. If you don't want to talk about it because it's your birthday I totally understand. But, like it had to be in some freak accident or-” 

“The Author’s arrogance took the Host's eyes.” The Host cut him off. He heard Dark enter the room and smiled ever so slightly. He was not ashamed of what had happened. He rose from the Author's ashes. He was greeted with a formal ‘good morning’ and birthday wishes. “The Host thanks Dark. Bim Trimmer asks what he means by his answer and The Host refuses to elaborate.” He easily slipped back into his narration, muttering to himself as he sipped the coffee from the mug. 

“Yeah, but-”

“Trimmer.” Hissed Dark with a sharp glare. “We know better than to ask prying questions. Especially on someone's birthday.” The demon reprimanded, pouring himself a cup of coffee. 

The Host glanced to Bim, biting his lip in thought. Maybe it would silence that particular voice in his head if he told the story. He raised his voice to a low speaking voice. “The Host informs Bim Trimmer that if he really wants to learn how he lost his eyes, he is welcome to stop by his library tonight. When it's no longer his birthday.” He spoke clearly, his head cocked slightly. There was the faintest smile on his lips as he spoke, which went unnoticed by Bim. 

Bim seemed confused by the offer. “Right... I'll just come by around, like, seven?”

“He meant midnight, Bim.” Dark corrected, mug of coffee raised to his lips. He noticed then the smile on the Host’s lips, which, despite what he was willing to admit, sent a shiver down his spine. The coolness always contrasting with the perpetual bloodied tears. 

“O-oh! Then of course! Yeah. Sure thing.” 

The Host nodded to acknowledge Bim, then went back to himself. He narrated between sips of coffee, speaking as each ego walked in and wished him a happy birthday. It didn't feel like a happy day, or anything he should be proud of. His head hurt and he had to deal with the Author's aggression. Usually, he never had to worry about it, but there was something persistent about the Author that day. His eyebrows furrowed and he gripped his cup tighter. Eventually, the rage that swam under his skin became unbearable. He stood from the table and silently left for the library. He walked down the steps with perfected skill, and into a side room. He turned on the recording software, his breathing a little heavier than before. His skin crawled and ached to spill blood. He wanted to hurt someone. Anyone. When he was officially on air he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“The Host apologizes as he said he would not go live today. He has certain,” He searched for the proper word, his hands curling and uncurling into fists. “.... Frustrations he needs to work out.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, the voice of a young woman whispered the name of her abuser into his ear. Someone who needed revenge to be taken. “Today, the story of Jeff Price comes to mind. And how the pitiful man wrapped his lips around a shotgun.” He weaved out the story, of a man who hurt a woman far from their realm. Just like the Author, he loved to use real people in his stories. The fatal difference was that the Host seeked to torture twisted people, and get revenge on behalf of the innocent. He drove the man mad in real time with his narrations, all it took was a little push. 

He wasn't sure how long he was on air, or if anyone even listened, but he continued. A steady flow of blood trailing down his eyes. It was always hard to change the present, it took so much power to have total knowledge and control over someone's story. When he finished his tale with the abuser killing himself he gave a sigh of relief. That blood lust had been quenched. “And that, dear listeners, is the story of Jeff Price. A man who will never see the smile of relief cross Sarah Cram’s face when she finds out her rapist has died.” There was an audible grin in his voice. “Until next time. I will see you all real soon.” He turned off the recording equipment, taking himself off air before he made a sound of relief. He felt slightly better, he stood up and left the room, a hand on the wall as he he shut the door. He heard the sound of pages turning. His first instinct was violence. 

It was the Author- somehow. It had to be. This day could not get any worse, therefore, it was the Author coming to get his revenge. 

The Host muttered a few words and the metal baseball bat appeared in his hand. When he used his narration to find who it was he sighed in relief. He was stupid to get carried away. He walked into the small area where Bim sat on the worn leather couch, a book in hand. One of his books. He dragged the bat behind him slowly, leaning down behind the other with a small smirk on his lips. “The Host hopes Bim Trimmer enjoys his writing.” He murmured into Bim’s ear, laughing at the shriek that followed.

“Jezums!” Bim clutched at his heart, he had bumped into the Host's desk when he bolted from the couch. “Yes it was good. Just never do that again!” He said in a strained, nervously loud voice. He checked his watch, the other was late, but he wasn't going to correct him on that. He watched the other sit on one end of the couch, the Author's bloodstained bat in hand and resting easily between his legs. The TV host cringed, when the Author was still around, he had seen that bat in action. Experienced it once for himself. He slowly sat down on the couch again, keeping to the other side and quietly hoping that the Host didn't wish to engage in any of the Author’s behaviors. 

“Bim Trimmer does not need to be afraid. The Host is only using this so it's easier to tell the Author’s story.” 

Holy hell, how did he know? Could he read minds? Bim shuddered at the idea. The manor did not need someone who could read minds. 

“But isn't it your story too?” 

An almost fond smile crossed the Host's lips. “Yes. But Bim Trimmer asked how the Author lost his eyes. Not how the Host got his body.” 

The air became tense between them, and Bim shifted again. “So, how did it happen?” 

The Host popped his neck, and took a deep breath. “The Host is glad that Bim Trimmer asked.”  


	2. Chapter 2

The Author had power, but it was not enough. It was never enough. He was angry that he could still be stopped. That Dark could still subdue him and evade his powers. Though, with his last visit to the manor the other egos lived in, he had taken something. The book was old, part of him wondered if it was bound in human skin. He wouldn't put it above the demon. It was filled with old gods and monsters one might be able to summon and harness their power. He read the book all the way through, but only one seemed to call to him. He was titled as only the Host.

A God of protection and knowledge. He was both a silent observer and ferocious warrior. He was depicted as covered in blood with a long robe, and dark hair with a light streak. The Author wanted to harness him. There was a spell in the book to invoke the god, but the ingredients were long. He felt as though he should get on the god’s good side and get them by hand. He decided to rest the night and go to the market in the morning.

As the Author laid in his bed. Just as he slipped into the twilight between awake and asleep, a million voices whispered in his ears. Dozens of hands clawed for him. 

“The Host suggests the Author rethink his greed.” Among the voices a low, even one muttered. “He does not understand the forces he is playing with.” 

“It doesn't matter what you think. When I invoke you- I'll be unstoppable.” 

The voices faded with an eerie chuckle, a hand patting the human on the cheek. “Very well.” 

The Author woke up in the late morning with a splitting headache. His face ached and his skin burned. He dragged himself to the cabin’s small bathroom and investigated the mirror. His cheek had been bruised and there were claw marks up and down his arms. His stomach turned at the sight. He had to leave and get what the spell requires. He made a mental list and headed to the stores, now wearing a coat and jeans to cover his arms and legs. 

The ingredients were all quite easy to get- lavender, ink, feathers, and the like. It took only half the day before he was ready to leave the shops and try out the new spell. Unfortunately, he had to wait until it was dark, as the spell had to be cast under the moon. He wasn't sure how to wait it out, but he managed. He wrote, but none of his characters would obey his wishes. He tried to eat, but he lost his appetite. He waited, with the TV on and book in hand. It was the best he could do to waste time. The hours crawled by, seeming to have slowed down. A single minute felt as if lasted at least ten. 

When the sun began to dip under the horizon he could have squealed with delight. He rushed to collect the ingredients and the old spell book. He read and reread the symbols he was supposed to draw on the ground. Eventually, he started to draw them in the dirt. Each intricate  design taking his full attention as he drew them. The trees rustled with a low wind. It had to be a warning, one the Author chose to ignore. He lit several candles in a circle. Night suddenly crashed into him, time flashed past him in an instant. It went from twilight to pitch black around him. He cursed under his breath before holding out the book in one hand. He began to recite the spell.

“With blood like ink.” He emptied the small vial of ink into a large bowl. Next, he grabbed a knife, it was an ordinary pocket knife he found at the market. 

“A silent protector.” He placed the book on the ground, and with the knife he slashed his palm open. He winced as he allowed the blood to slowly drip into the bowl. He continued on with the spell, pouring various ingredients into the bowl and mumbling phrases the correspond to them. Some were in English, a few were in a language he had never seen, and he stumbled over the strange words. He looked back to the book and underneath the other steps another one appeared, scrawled in fresh ink. When his fingers brushed against the words they smudged. “A sacrifice? What the hell does that mean?!” He sighed to himself. More words scratched themselves onto the paper. It wants something important to him. Something the Author loved. He made a face at the request. He didn't love much of anything, he didn't want to either. 

He moved off to a patch a clean dirt and summoned a journal. It was his favorite. The pages were frayed and the binding was barely hanging on. It had long since been filled, but it contained the first draft of his first published novel. He hated the idea of getting rid of it, but he had to. Just as the Host wished. 

The Author dropped the journal into the bowl, hating that he had to. He then struck a match.

“Host. I summon your power and ask for your strength. I ask for you. And I shall give you me.” He made sure to speak clearly before he dropped the lit match into the bowl. The flames swirled and would shift between a blinding light and a piercing black. 

Voices whispered from the woods and surrounded him. “Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.” They spoke. Some whispered, others shrieked, but the idea had still gotten across. What he did was not enough for the god’s liking. “He wants more from you!” A voice yelled, an older man. “Impure brat!” Came one of a young child. Suddenly, he felt as if something had hit him in both eyes and he stumbled backwards from the sheer force. He groaned in pain, and more hands came in response. All of the hands aiming to hurt the Author. Like they seeked revenge. In a flash, they were gone. The candles had gone out, and the fire in the bowl had also been blown out. He grabbed the stolen book and scrambled inside. He barely made it in before locking the door behind him and sighing in relief.  

He wasn't sure what the hell had happened outside, but he was sure he didn't want to face it. He pressed his back to the door before wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. His mind screamed to get out. To run away and never return. However, an exhaustion set in his bones and he slowly made his way to the bathroom. He just needed to rest.

He washed his face in the sink, when he pulled his hands away there was blood on them. He suppressed a shriek and when he blinked, the blood was gone and replaced by the steady flow of water. He wiped his eyes, a pressure was building behind them. He looked up at his reflection in the mirror and froze. There was a man staring back at. 

Could he stare back if he had no eyes?

The man stood in a large trench coat, with blood freely flowing from the holes where his eyes should have been. There was a streak of golden hair amongst the bloody black hair. He laughed, it was deep and low. Just like that the Author was left alone in the mirror. He sighed shakily and left the bathroom. He didn't need to check on himself in the mirror again.  

He crawled in bed, not looking at the vanity mirror. He feared what he might see. He laid in silence, slowly starting to drift. He stared into the dark room, his vision going blurry with sleep. In the twilight of consciousness he saw figures, people being hurt in so many awful way. It jerked him awake, yet they were still there when the sleep left him. This wasn't a dream. A figure of a man appeared. He had his throat slit to the right of the bed, then stumbled before his body fell and bled out on the mattress. The Author didn't yell, he kept his mouth shut as even more figures appeared in his room. They were stumbling and crying. If they didn't die on the spot, they were begging for death. 

He kept himself from throwing up at the view. He sprinted from his suddenly crowded bedroom and slamming the door shut behind himself. He turned on the light of his living room with fear boiling in his chest. He sat on his couch with wide eyes faced on the closed bedroom door. He could hear them, faintly. They would bang against the door, sobbing for loved ones or relief. The cries started to die out around dawn and he finally relaxed. He wondered if whatever he summoned was even a god. Maybe it was something awful. Maybe it was a demon like Dark and he misread it.

No, that was stupid. 

He would have noticed by now if he had accidentally summoned a demon instead of a god. Maybe the Host just hated him? 

That was even more stupid! 

He stared at the door until the sun shone high in the sky, and the voices stopped. He didn't go back in his bedroom. He smashed the mirror in his bathroom as well to be safe. He didn't want any more visions. They didn't stop despite he precaution.

The Author would get a sharp pain behind his eyes and then the figures would appear wherever he was. He stopped leaving the living room, it seemed to be the only space they wouldn't stay in. The stress was beginning to pile up, it was beginning to become unbearable. He was starting to doubt his own sanity. As he sat on his couch, tired eyes shifting around the room did he realize it. He caught sight of a man with his skull bashed in. These were people he had hurt. Characters from stories that he killed in different ways come back to haunt him. The figures were becoming more descript and grotesque. He could make out the freckles on the man's skin, he could clearly see the fragments of skull peering through the mess of hair and gore. He buried his face and his hands and pleaded for them to leave. For the visions to go away and never return. 

“Punishment.” That familiar male voice hissed in his ear. “The Host watched them all die. The Author deserves to learn the aftermath of what he did.” 

The Author all but whimpered at the voice, trying not to cry out at the proximity. Directly speaking to him. “What do you want?” 

“The Host wishes for the Author to learn the price he must pay for power.” Then the voices and visions dissolved into the usual creaks of the old cabin. 

The Author was alone again, and thank God. 

His paranoia kept him from sleeping for two days straight. He was starting to become delusional, unsure what was caused from the Host or his own tired brain. Then, of course, there was the sharp pain behind his eyes that would come and go right before the visions appeared. He had to do something, anything to get it to stop. For the silence to finally fall again on the cabin. He placed offerings to the Host, he prayed, and did everything he could think of, but nothing seemed to work. 

It happened on the third day. 

The third day of paranoia was what broke him. He hadn't slept, he hadn't eaten, he barely left the couch. He saw a women crawl towards him, blood oozing from the head wound. She should have died hours ago by his calculations. He didn't want to see them anymore, he had to act fast. He stood up with a numbed determination, walking into the kitchen and grabbing the first sharp object he could find- a pair of kitchen scissors. He grimaced, it would have to do. He hesitated, then another wave of blinding pain shot behind his eyes and the Author moaned in anguish. He could not hesitate anymore. It had to stop. If he were dead he would be free. He took in a stuttering breath before lodging the scissors into his right eye. A strangled gasp ripping from his throat at the pain. Pulling the scissors out and repeating the action to the left one. He didn't stop until he could no longer lift his arms due to blood loss. He chuckled brokenly, hands shakily rubbing the blood off his face. He would die soon. 

Thank God for hemophilia. 

After a few minutes he crumpled to the floor, his head swimming and beginning to relax. Just as the world began to fade he felt something strange. Feverish hands cupped his face, his face twitched in an attempt to be repulsed at the sensation. 

“Let go.” The Host whispered lowly. “Let go and the Host will take what is his.”

“You said,” The Author's words were a cracked whisper, his breathing ragged around the words. “You said I would become strong.” He heard the god laugh and he shuddered. 

“Why would the Author gain this power? He sought out a god of vengeance. And Vengeance is what he received.”

The Author's final moments were broken. The realization that he hurt hundreds of people, that he was a monster. He felt those hands again clawing at his insides. He let out a final sob before he no longer felt his body. He felt nothing. He was nothing. 

There was only the Host. 

The Host stood up unsteadily, he hadn't had a vessel in so long. His narrations started to flow from his lips, he was going to die. At least the body would. “The Host had to act fast before he lost his vessel.” He mused allowed. He clenched his fist and opened a hole in reality, stepping through it and instantly emerging into the living room of the other egos’ manner. A smirk ghosted his lips at the horrified noise that came from Dr. Iplier. 

“Author, what the hell did you do?” Dark asked in what sounded like awe. The Author looked ghastly; his skin pale with blood loss and he was visibly sweating. The raw power rolling off the man was shocking to say in the least. What had happened? Where were his eyes?

The Host snapped his head towards the demon, tilting his head slightly before he answered. Empty eye sockets still rushing blood staring right into Dark's eyes. 

“There is no more Author. Just the Host.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bim starred in stunned silence once the story had finished. He had roughly a hundred questions buzzing around his head. He wasn't sure how he felt about the explanation, that the Host really did drive someone to kill themself. He shuddered. Could the other do that on a whim? He always seemed so docile, so, to hear of him using his power to hurt was jarring. 

“Bim is allowed to ask any questions he might have.” 

Oh, thank God. He had a lot. He tried to compartmentalize his questions and narrow them down. It didn't work, of course. Finally, he bit the bullet. “How old are you?” 

The Host laughed, the sound was eerie. Well, no it wasn't, but everything the Host did now was eerie. Now that Bim knew the truth. 

“The Host hasn't counted his age for a very long time. At this point, he does not know if he is older or younger than Darkiplier.” The Host paused, as if thinking. “The Host must be younger. But not enough for Dark to gloat as much as he does.” 

“Why do your eyes still bleed?” The question left Bim's mouth before the other had even finished answering his first one. He needed so many answers. 

The Host seemed much easier in this moment, despite the twin trails of red streaming down his face. “The Author's body does not hold in the Host's aura well enough. It is worse if he actually uses his powers. It is also because it was already a wound when the Host took the body.” He admitted, leaning in slightly. He liked the small satisfaction that bubbled in his chest when he realized how scared of him Bim really was. It was cute in some ways, downright hilarious in others. The questions continued on for nearly an hour. Some of them prying, many just scratching the surface of who he was. The conversation would teeter from the original point, but always come back. Finally, a question tore through the calm demeanor he had carefully built. 

“Are you ever scared that he’ll come back? Or that he's still here?” 

The Host visibly tensed. “The Host does not fear anything except the Author.” He finally said, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “The Author has latched on to his body, but he is not strong enough to take control. He is closer to an intrusive thought at this point.” He was satisfied with his answer, leaning against the couch cushions. His lips moved in silent narration before the corners of his lips twitched up. “No. It is not like Jekyll and Hyde. As the Author does not get to see the light of day.” 

“Why’d you do it?” 

“The Author sought out a protector. One who seeks to avenge those wronged. One can imagine why the Host did not take kindly to the Author's greed. The Host only wishes to help those hurt.” 

“Oh. Do you still, like, kill people?” 

Bim shuddered when he heard the other chuckle, he almost shrieked when he was grabbed by the shoulder. His gaze focused on the bandage where there should have been eyes. It was always so creepy when the other would do things like that, as if he could still see. He shifted slightly, not breaking the one-sided contact. 

“Only those who have hurt others for selfish reasons.” Then the Host paused, almost laughing. “Sometimes the Host must stray from his path. And sometimes he has to just hurt other people to satisfy a far more primal urge. Bim Trimmer, of course, understands.”

How did the Host know about that? 

Bim felt uneasy again, no longer feeling so safe around the blind man. His stomach shifted. Still, he flashed a smile. He flinched when the grip on his shoulder tightened. “I have no idea what you're talking about, big guy.” A nervous chuckle slipped past his lips.

“No? Then, that was the Host's mistake. Bim is seeing how quickly he can leave. The Host is understanding and is alright with Bim leaving.” 

“I-I appreciate you sharing all of this with me.” He went to stand, surprised that he was easily let go. “Early morning and everything. Happy birthday, again.” He mumbled quickly and started to head out of the library. He could hear Host laughing behind him and he quickened his pace. He pulled at his tie, his stomach doing flips when he heard the sound of the aluminum bat scrape against the floor. What a creepy guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading I hope you all liked it! Please let me know what you guys thought/if I had any huge mistakes I'd really appreciate it lmao


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